


My Salvation

by thewolvescalledmehome



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Historical, Angst, Class Differences, Early 1900s New York, Emotional Manipulation, F/M, Fluff, Grief/Mourning, Jon and the Starks Are Not Related, Jon is working class, Minor Character Death, Progressive Era, Sansa and Alayne are different people, Sansa is an Heiress, Strikes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-03
Updated: 2019-02-11
Packaged: 2019-10-21 10:37:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 17,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17641172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewolvescalledmehome/pseuds/thewolvescalledmehome
Summary: Jon is a poor laborer that wanders into the part of the city he doesn't belong, wondering what might have been if influenza and the factory hadn't killed his mother. Sansa is supposed to be a proper young lady entertaining suitable husbands, but she desperately wants to know about the strikes going on in the city. When they meet, Jon knows better than to let himself get close to someone like her, no matter how hard she keeps trying.Inspired by the Broadway version of Newsies (but NOT a Newsies AU).





	1. Jon

**Author's Note:**

> So I had several days off this week, watched the Broadway version of Newsies too many times, and this wrote itself.
> 
> Title from My Salvation by Gabrielle Alpin. 
> 
> Also, I'm playing fast and loose with timelines so if something isn't fully historically accurate, I apologize. Also, when I looked up what I thought would be simple questions I was led to 20 page academic articles that I needed to pay for, so I took my best guess with information I could get for free.

The sound of the whistle allowed Jon to finally relax. He bent back, stretching his shoulders and spine after hours hunched over the printing press. His fingers ached from setting the type the way they did every day. Everything hurt but that was nothing new. Everything had been hurting since he started working when his mother got sick years ago.

Jon stepped out of the shop and joined the crush of workers who looked just as exhausted as he felt. They all squinted in the early twilight, used to the dark of printshops and factories. Few looked up even as he matched pace with them, but that was unsurprising. They were tired, and they all had the same story so there was no point in asking a pleasant greeting.

They were all the same—or at least that’s how everyone else saw them. The working men. The ones the women in the fancy dresses would cross the street to avoid.

Jon felt that old anger rise in him, and instead of turning off like everyone else did, Jon kept walking past the shops until the buildings started to have more space between them.

He knew he shouldn’t do this. He knew doing this changed nothing, but he still found himself walking to the other side of the city. The one where there was space between buildings, and houses instead of towering apartment buildings. Where light spilled wastefully out of buildings and the fences didn’t have spikes or wires on the top.

He breathed in deeply, savoring the air that felt far fresher than that of his part of the city. Here, he could smell grass and some family’s dinner being cooked. Here, the air changed depending on the time of year. He felt a breeze across his face that he never felt between the looming buildings. The freshness of air was so different from the grease, smoke, sweat, and desperation that filled his lungs where he was from.

Everything was different in this part of the city, which was why Jon rarely allowed himself to walk through it.

The first time he’d done it was years ago, on the first anniversary of his mother’s death.

She used to take him through this part of the city, promising that one day they would live in a place like this, where they wouldn’t have to worry about finding work or food or warmth. She would spin fairy tales about the people who lived here, and how one day he’d find someone to share his life with here. Jon used to believe her, when he was young, but after years of her shuffling from factory to factory, from man to man, Jon stopped listening. He didn’t indulge in fantasies like she did. He saw and understood the reality of their situation. They were poor, and they would spend the rest of their lives poor. They were working people, and they would work until the day they died.

Then she got sick, and Jon found himself promising her that he would find a way to make her dream a reality.

When she died, Jon found himself hating everyone who lived on this side of the city. All the socialites with their money and fancy clothes. With their security in their homes. He hated everyone who made his mother believe she could believe something other than a poor factory worker. He hated them for killing her—if she hadn’t worked so hard, she never would’ve gotten that sick.

On the first anniversary, he didn’t have money for flowers for her grave, so he walked through this part of the city, pretending she was by his side, pointing out all the little details that she said they would have too, one day.

Since then, he’s only ever done it on the anniversary of her death. He didn’t know what lured him there today, but stepping from the dusty streets onto cobblestone somehow eased the ache in his chest. He hadn’t realized how much his mother had been weighing on him until he thought he felt her ghost beside her.

It was the headline he’d set that morning, he realized. There had been another bout of influenza wiping out factory workers. It had been a few years since the last one that warranted a story on the front page.

He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to ignore the wave of grief washing over him. He couldn’t break down, especially not here and not now.

The sudden sound of a carriage rushing up behind him made him jump up on the sidewalk. He’d been walking along the gutter without realizing it.

Jon yanked his cap down further over his face as the carriage passed. He didn’t want to see the type of people who had the life his mother craved so badly it killed her.

The carriage rolled to a stop at the house a hundred feet in front of him and he stood there just long enough to see two women step down. Women like his mother wished she could be.

Jon wanted to badly to turn away, but something kept him frozen on the sidewalk, staring at the women. Women who would never die like his mother did—too weak to move, half starved, frozen, and ill. No, women who lived on this side of the city rarely died from influenza the way his mother had. They had husbands and fathers and people who cared enough to demand the doctor do something to help her.

Jon had tried to do that, but the doctor had wanted the money upfront and it was either the doctor or food. He hated that he had to make that decision—that it cost him his mother. He hated these people more, for never having to make it.

Jon didn’t realize he was still staring at the women until the second one, the younger one, turned to look at him. He wasn’t close enough to see the details of her face—just enough to remind him of the porcelain doll he’d seen in a shop window once.

Startled, Jon took a step backwards. He saw a man step down from the carriage then, and he took off before he could be shooed away.


	2. Sansa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first chapter is pretty much solely exposition so I'm posting the second one with it.

Sansa wished dearly that she had declined the invitation to tea. All of the other girls sat around discussing the newest fashion from Paris but all she wanted to talk about were the strikes that were happening.

She didn’t care about the women who were deciding not to wear corsets—well, actually, she did care. She wished she was as brave as they were. She hated corsets. She couldn’t share that though—that would be wildly improper.

Instead, Sansa smiled politely and nodded at all the insipid conversation that floated around her.

Casting her eyes around, Sansa looked for anything that could save this afternoon. She thought she might fall asleep right in the parlor if the conversation didn’t change to something more stimulating soon. To her surprise, she saw a copy of that morning’s newspaper folded and tucked beside the end table. Surreptitiously, she leaned down, catching the newspaper between two fingers, and flipped it into her lap.

It opened to the article she’d been reading that morning before her father came down and claimed the paper. Quickly skimming the part she’d read that morning, she looked for where she’d left off. The strikers had formed a union, it said, asking for better wages, conditions, and hours.

She’d always heard that laborers should be happy with what they got—a friend of her father’s once said a monkey could be trained to do the same job and they would do so happily without pay.

Every time the term _union_ or _strike_ was spoken in conversation, it was met with scoffs and derision. No one she knew would ask what they laborers wanted—the fact that they wanted alone was already too much.

She couldn’t understand how nobody was curious. If what they were getting now was acceptable, the way everyone made it seem to be, why would they go so far as to refuse to work in order to get what they want?

Sansa knew exactly how people would respond if she asked that though—they would say that the laborers were jealous of everything people like her had. What they had wasn’t enough—they had to have more. They were greedy, and if they gave in to their demands now, in two weeks it would be more strikes and more demands.

“Sansa? Are you all right?” Margaery, the hostess, asked.

“Hmm? Oh, yes, fine, thank you.”

“You’re awfully quiet.”

“Oh, I was just looking at the newspaper that was here—”

“Oh, those dreadful things. Joff doesn’t allow me to read them. He says they’ll taint a woman’s disposition.”

Sansa colored at the remark and quickly returned the paper to where she’d found it. Of course, the paper wasn’t Margaery’s. Women like her didn’t read newspapers.

“Oh, no, I wasn’t reading it. I was looking at the type. It’s so small, it’s a wonder anyone is able to,” Sansa lied, hating how airy her voice sounded as she spoke.

“Yes, Joff does complain something awful after reading the papers. They give him quite a headache. Maybe you should write that in.”

Sansa hummed to acknowledge that she had heard and sipped her tea.

* * *

“Mama, I’m going to help Jeyne with the shopping,” Sansa called from the foyer, donning her simplest coat.

“Just you and Jeyne? I don’t know how I feel about you young girls going about without an escort—especially with all this strike nonsense.”

“Jeyne said Jory would escort us.”

“I suppose that’s fine. Please be home by dusk.”

“Of course, Mama.”

Sansa kissed her mother on her cheek and slipped from the room before her mother could notice she was heading towards the service entrance and not the front door.

Out on the street, Sansa pulled the piece of newspaper she’s stolen that morning from her pocket. There was a rally being held that afternoon and Sansa intended to find out what exactly it was these strikers were asking for.

The square the rally was being held in was farther into the city than Sansa had ever been. She was shocked at how different it was from where she grew up. There were dogs and dirty children running across the streets, people sitting against buildings in tattered clothes, and factory smoke clouded everything. Sansa spent the first several minutes coughing into her handkerchief trying to repel the smoke from her lungs.

If these were the better conditions the laborers were demanding, Sansa thought they well deserved it.  

In the square, Sansa was met with a crowd of men. She quickly noticed that she was the only woman in the crowd, but she steeled her nerves. She came all this way. She wasn’t going to turn around now.

There was a man standing in the back of a cart shouting about how his wife was working in a factory despite the fact that she’d coughed until her handkerchief had been stained red last night, all because they wouldn’t be able to feed their children if she missed a day. He spoke of the influenza epidemic and how it’s forced more and more children to begin working at younger ages.

Sansa had no idea children were working in the same conditions, but the shouting that surrounded her validated everything the man said. She was so swept up in everything they were saying that she found herself nodding and shouting alongside these men.

It was the shrill whistle of the police that pulled her back to where she was and who she was.

If the police found her here, they would escort her home and her family would know that she lied.

Sansa panicked, turning back to the direction she’d come from, but a mass of people had joined the rally after she did, and she was faced with a horde that was pushing forward and shouting.

No, no, she had to get out. The police couldn’t find her here.

She was forced to move forward with the crowd, closer to where the police were still blowing on their whistles.

“This way, quick!” a voice yelled as a hand found hers. She clutched it tightly and followed as he led her sideways through the mob.

Even with the man leading her, Sansa felt bodies push at her from all sides and she found herself losing her grip on his hand.

A feeling of terror swelled in her. She would be trapped—trampled. No one would find her. She was so stupid. She never should have come to the rally.

“Hey—you’re alright. C’mon,” the voice shouted again. This time the man wound his arm around her waist and hauled her from the mass.

When they finally broke through and into the mouth of an alley Sansa thought she might cry in relief. She’d never been so afraid in her life.

“You good to get yourself home?” the man asked, tipping his flat cap back.

“I…” Sansa looked up at the tall buildings around her. She didn’t know how to get home without going back through the square. “I only know the one way. Through the square,” she admitted softly.

“Where’re you headed?”

“Past the toy store on the east side?” She knew her way from there. It was just getting around the square that she didn’t know.

“I know it. I can walk you,” he offered.

“Oh, thank you. I’m Sansa,” she said, extending her hand.

“Jon.”

It wasn’t until he took her hand that Sansa realized she hadn’t worn gloves. She hadn’t noticed that when he helped her from the riot. She’d never felt a man’s skin touch hers before, and in one afternoon she’d not only felt that but also felt his arms around her waist. No wonder her mother never wanted her going out alone.

“So… what did you think?” she asked after they had walked the length of the alley in silence.

“That you looked like you needed help.”

“I meant of the rally.”

“Oh. They all say the same thing and nothin’ ever changes. Rallies won’t make a difference—it’s the strikes that’ll do some damage.”

“Damage?”

“It’ll make a difference. Make them notice how badly they need people like us to do the jobs they think they’re too good for.”

Sansa heard the bitter edge that crept into his voice. She wondered if he could tell that she was one of the _them_ he was talking about.

“What were you doin’ at a rally like that?”

“I wanted to be informed,” she said primly.

“No, I get it. Women should be in on it too. And the kids. That’ll make a much bigger impact if everyone went on strike.”

“Do you think it would work? If everyone went on strike?”

“It’d do more than anything else has. And we can’t keep going on the way we have. Too many people dyin’.”

Sansa nodded, at a loss of words. She hadn’t realized people were _dying_. Surely if more people knew that they would grant the better wages, conditions, and hours the laborers were asking for.

“So, this is it, huh?” he asked, pausing near the toy store she had mentioned.

“Ah, not quite. I live a little farther up. I know my way from here though.”

“Let me walk you. I’d feel awful if somethin’ happened to you.”

“Oh, um, alright.”

Sansa fell back into step with him, realizing he had only spoken so openly because he thought she was probably, at most, middle class. That she wasn’t quite so different from him. Maybe he thought she was a shop girl, above the work of a factory but not above working.

As soon as he realized where she lived, he would clam right up.

“I think what these laborers are doing is really important,” she said as they approached her street. She hoped she sounded earnest, because she was. After hearing what the man said about his wife and all the children working, she wondered how anyone could deny them their demands.

“Laborers?” he echoed as they continued closer to her house.

She realized too late the error she’d made. Workers like him probably didn’t say laborers. Only people who didn’t have to work said that. People like her.

“Well, um, this is where I live,” she stuttered, stopping awkwardly on the sidewalk outside her house. “Thank you so much for escorting me home.” She offered her hand again, but Jon’s were deep in his pockets.

“It was good to meet you, ma’am. Glad I could get you home safe.”

“Jon, wait—” she started, but he tugged on his cap as if tipping it before turning on his heel and heading back towards the city.


	3. Jon

Jon walked away with his shoulders curled and his hands shoved deep in his pockets.

He couldn’t believe how stupid he was. He should’ve seen it in the panicked expression she wore when the riot broke out, or how she didn’t know her way around the city. He should’ve seen her hesitation in agreeing to have him walk her home, or her trying to ditch him at the toy shop.

Of course, she didn’t want to be seen with the likes of him.

He realized now what he should’ve when she said her name was Sansa—she was Sansa Stark, daughter of Eddard Stark, one of the richest men in the city.

He couldn’t believe how openly he talked about the strikes with the likes of her.

Jon should’ve noticed before she said _laborers_. No one he knew used that word, but he should’ve known in the way she spoke before that. She was obviously educated. No one he knew had that much education, especially none of the women.

And that dress—no working woman would ever have a dress that clean they wore anywhere but church. It wasn’t fancy though, he realized. Not like the ones he’d seen other women like her in.

 _She introduced herself as Sansa. Part of this is on her, too,_ he thought. She’d meant to blend in. She’d dressed plainly, and introduced herself with her given name.

At the corner of the street that would put her house behind him, Jon found himself turning around, wondering just what Sansa Stark had been doing at that rally.

* * *

It was a week before Jon found himself on her street again.

He couldn’t get her out of his mind. He couldn’t understand what she had been doing in that part of the city. He couldn’t understand why she’d tried to act like she was just as low of class as he was. He knew walking passed her house wasn’t going to get him any answers. The only thing it could get him was arrested for loitering, and that was the last thing he needed, and yet.

And yet, it almost became a weekly habit.

Before, he would walk to this side of the city once a year, but all of sudden he was walking down her street once a week.

The first few times he didn’t even make it down to her house—the same house the carriage had stopped in front of when he came down this way a few weeks ago.

Then he found himself walking past, wondering if maybe he’d see passing in front of a window. He passed once, twice, and then on the third time, almost a month after he’d pulled her from the riot, she was getting into a carriage.

Jon stopped dead at the sight of her. He didn’t want her to think he’d begun to follow her. He’d walked this street for years before he’d met her.

To his surprise, though, when the carriage drove past him, she leaned out the window and waved to him.

After that day, Jon stayed away. She’d waved to him. That was enough to answer his questions. She was compassionate, that was all. She cared about people. There was nothing deeper. She probably didn’t even recognize him but waved to a stranger she saw passing on her street, because that was the type of person she was.

Jon could accept that. She was kind. It was an easy answer.

He promised himself that he wouldn’t go back. Not until his mother’s anniversary.

* * *

“You!” It took Jon too long to realize this was directed at him and a cane cracked on the press next to his hand. “I need you to deliver a set of papers to the Hardyng residence,” Thorne barked.

 _Send someone else_ , Jon wanted to yell. He set type now. He worked his way up. The boys ran papers. He hadn’t been a boy for years.

“Now.”

“Yessir,” he mumbled, taking the papers.

“And I need this set before you leave tonight. Make sure it gets done.”

“Yessir.”

Jon set out on the familiar path towards both the Stark and Hardyng residences. He hadn’t been back on that street almost a month, not since the day she’d waved to him.

He didn’t know why he felt nervous walking it now. He had a legitimate reason to be on the street for the first time, but his heart was in his throat and he felt on edge—like he was going to be caught.

When he passed the Stark house, Jon kept his eyes trained on the sidewalk. He didn’t want to see if she’d be out. He didn’t want to know what her house looked like with the afternoon sun on it. He didn’t want to look like he was looking for trouble.

Once he was past it, he let out a breath of air. He did it. He was fine. All he had to do was pass it again after delivering the papers.

On his way back, Jon tried to do the same. It was just a house. It shouldn’t make him feel so nervous, but it did.

He was almost past it when he heard his name.

“Jon?” It was quiet enough that he was sure he was imagining things, but he looked around nevertheless.

Sansa was standing where her drive met the sidewalk.

“I thought that was you. Did you pass by just a few minutes ago?”

“Yes, ma’am, I was delivering papers to the Hardyng family.”

“Oh! I know them. Do you deliver papers to them often?”

Jon flushed with the sick realization that she must’ve seen him walking passed her house more than the time she waved to him.

“Yes, ma’am,” he lied, because he couldn’t explain the truth.

“Do you ever have extra papers?”

“What?” he asked, forgetting his manners. She didn’t blink.

“Do you ever have extra papers that don’t get sold or delivered?”

“Sometimes,” he shrugged. He usually took those home to burn in the winter when it got too cold.

“Do you think you could deliver them here?”

“Your father wants extra papers?” he asked, skeptical. Her father was rich. If he wanted extra papers, he could buy everything Jon printed in a year and it wouldn’t make a difference to him.

“No, no,” she muttered, suddenly turning pink. “ _I_ want to read the papers, but Father always reads it and the servants usually burn it. I don’t know how to get one. And I thought, if you had extras… And if you’re delivering to the Hardyngs anyway…”

“You want me to smuggle you newspapers?”

“Oh, _smuggle_ makes it sound reprehensible. I just want to know what’s happening in the world.”

Jon knew there was probably no harm in giving her an extra paper, and he would be seeing her everyday then, but that wouldn’t do him any good with getting her out of his head.

“I’ll pay you for them, of course,” she added hastily, as if that was the reason for his hesitation.

“No, keep your money. I’ll bring ‘em by on my way to the Hardyngs,” he agreed.

“There’s a loose brick in the courtyard. You can put them there.”

“Yes, Miss Stark,” he said, stepping back before she could say something else that could make him forget their stations.

“Have a nice night, Jon!” she called.

“You as well, Sansa,” he murmured to himself, pulling his cap down low.

* * *

The first time Jon took Sansa an extra newspaper was the next afternoon. If he had thought he was nervous the previous day, what he felt now was nothing in comparison. He was jittery and sure he looked guilty. He kept checking over his shoulder—for what, he didn’t know. He knew there was nothing wrong with bringing her papers, but something about it felt…scandalous.

When Jon finally found the loose brick in the wall Sansa had mentioned, he saw a small white parcel there already. For a second, he thought that he either had the wrong brick or, worse, that Sansa used this as a hidey-hole for suiters to leave favors.

He wondered what he was doing then.

Jon lifted the parcel in order fold the newspapers into the square, but it unraveled in his hands.

It was a handkerchief with a blue _SS_ embroidered on one side and something knotted in another corner. Glancing over his shoulder to make sure no one was waiting to catch him, Jon unknotted the corner to reveal a nickel.

The cost of a newspaper.

Part of him didn’t want to take it. He didn’t want to feel indebted to her—or anyone—but he’d brought her the newspaper. It wasn’t a debt, he told himself. A nickel was also a lot of money for him to turn down. He could do a lot of things with a nickel, so he pocketed it.

He left the handkerchief though. He doubted that was intended for him.

* * *

Jon delivering newspaper to the loose brick in the back wall of the Stark residence suddenly became part of his daily routine. Every day when the whistle blew at dusk, he tucked an extra copy of the day’s newspaper into his vest and walked to other side of the city. Every day, he found a handkerchief with _SS_ embroidered in a different color and a nickel knotted in the corner.

Most days he didn’t see Sansa, but some days he did, either when she was getting in or out of her carriage, or several times through the hole in the wall, as if she was waiting for him.

They never spoke, but Sansa always either waved or smiled at him. Every time she did, Jon felt his heart start to beat faster. He always told himself it was at the fear of getting caught, but the times he didn’t see Sansa never caused his pulse to race in quite the same way.

* * *

On one of the first days of summer, Jon was surprised to see a series of carriages in front of the Stark house. He had only ever seen one in front and he couldn’t think of a reason that they would need that many.

He could tell from the way the horses fidgeted they must have just arrived, so he leaned against the brick wall, hoping that seeing Sansa leave would help explain.

It did.

Sansa stepped out of the second carriage wearing a black dress and a black veil.

Jon started at the sight. She was in mourning. He took an involuntary step forward, towards her, but the way her head snapped up quickly froze his movements.

Their eyes met, but Jon saw none of the warmth he typically did. She didn’t wave or smile. She showed no indication that she even saw him.

Others dressed in black began descending from the other carriages, forcing Jon to stumble away before anyone could ask him why he was there.

Hastily, he found the brick and folded the papers into the hole.

It wasn’t until he was nearly home that he realized that for the first time there hadn’t been a handkerchief or a nickel in the wall for him.

If it had been anyone else, he might have been angry. If he hadn’t seen her in mourning clothes, he might have been angry.

He didn’t though. He felt helpless, powerless. Like he had when his mother died.

Jon slowly climbed the stairs to his flat, trying to shake that feeling of weakness that was starting to creep in.

Inside, he collapsed onto his bedroll, wondering what he, a poor typesetter, could do to help someone like Sansa. He knew when his mother passed anyone offering anything would have been helpful, but he was poor and had nothing. Sansa had everything—what could he possibly offer? There was nothing he could do about it tonight, he decided, rolling over and sliding his hand beneath the pillow. His fingers brushed something metal, and Jon grabbed it, bolting up.

His mother’s locket. He’d nearly forgotten he had it.

She always claimed that his father had given it to her when they first started courting, but she never had a photograph to put inside it. When they went on their walks through the other side of the city, she would often open it and show him the empty space, saying that one day she would have his picture taken so that she’d always have a piece of him near her heart.

The locket was old, the hinge was stuck in the open position, and the chain had bits of rust on it, but his mother had loved the necklace.

Jon ran his fingers over the simple pattern etched on the front. It was the only thing he had left from his mother.

It was also the only thing he had to give.


	4. Sansa

For several days, Sansa did not leave her room. Not to eat, not to present herself as the appropriately bereaved daughter, and not to gather the newspapers from the wall.

A week after the funeral, Sansa finally found the strength to make her way to the courtyard and check the wall for newspapers.

She knew she owed Jon almost a week’s worth of payment for the newspapers, but she wasn’t sure how she was going to pay for them now. Before, she would ask her father over breakfast for a nickel to buy hair ribbons or something frivolous and he agreed without question. With him gone, she couldn’t ask anymore. Her mother had no control over the money, and Petyr—her father’s business partner—now had full control of her family’s finances until her brother returned from his tour of Europe next year. She certainly couldn’t ask him for thirty-five cents, plus a nickel a day.

She decided to leave Jon a note, asking for him to stop bringing papers until she could figure out a way to pay for them again, and to repay him for the last week’s worth.

In the courtyard, Sansa folded the stack of papers as small as she could and tucked it into the waist of her skirt before draping her shawl to cover the bundle. It was far too warm for her to be wearing one, but it was black, so she doubted anyone would question her about it. In the place of the handkerchief she usually left, Sansa dropped the folded piece of stationery that explained what happened and asked if he could kindly stop delivering them until she could find a way to pay him.

Once she was safely back in her room with the door latched, Sansa pulled the papers from her waistband. She hadn’t left a nickel in over a week, but Jon continued to leave papers for her.

She quickly shuffled through them, looking for the one dated the day after the funeral. She didn’t want to read about that. When she loosed the paper from the others in the sheaf though, something clattered to her desk.

It was a piece of paper folded around something.

Frowning, Sansa unfolded the paper to see a broken pewter locket and a note scratched out in pencil.

_I was sorry to read about your father’s passing. I lost my mother too. This was hers. I found it a comfort. I hope you do as well. –Jon_

For the first time since hearing her mother’s screams from the parlor, Sansa felt something other than a forlorn detachment.

She almost smiled even, as she clasped the locket around her neck and dropped it below her blouse.

* * *

Early the next morning, Sansa stole back out to the wall. She knew Jon must bring the papers by after work, which meant he hadn’t been by yet today.

She removed the brick and saw that her letter from yesterday was still there. Pulling the second letter from her sleeve, Sansa folded it around the first and replaced both the papers and the brick.

* * *

That afternoon, Sansa found her mother in the parlor with her embroidery hoop.

“Good afternoon, Mama,” Sansa began.

“Have you come to keep me company?”

Seven little words and Sansa felt guilty. Keeping her mother, a new widow, company. That’s what a good daughter would be doing. She should open her mouth and say _of course_. She should apologize for isolating herself and not looking out for her mother or her siblings, briefly home from school, over the last week.

“I’m sorry, Mama. I only just realized that I had accepted an invitation to dinner with the Baratheons. This was before Father’s passing, of course, but declining had slipped my mind with everything happening…” Sansa trailed off, the lie she had concocted that morning suddenly seeming more severe than the little white lie she had thought it was.

“Oh, of course, darling. We mustn’t let the Baratheons think we’re slighting them. What time will you need the carriage? I’ll let Jory know.”

“Oh, Margaery said she would send hers down to collect me. They’ve gotten a new one and she wanted my opinion.”

“That sounds fine. Just be sure to tell Jeyne not to set you a place for dinner.”

“Of course, Mama. Thank you.”

It took all of the restraint Sansa had not to rush from the room.

What was she doing? Lying to her mother? To sneak out and meet a man?

In the hall, she pressed her fingers against the locket that lay under her dress. Jon said his mother had passed. He was the only person she knew who had also lost a parent. He was the only one she had to talk to.

* * *

Sansa paced in front of the stretch of wall soon after dusk fell. She knew Jon typically came after the sun began to set but it was rarely full dark when he came.

She wore the same coat she had worn to the rally—the one that must’ve fooled Jon into thinking that she wasn’t so different from him. Nervously, Sansa touched her pocket again, checking for the letters she’d only just taken from the wall.

She didn’t know why she was so paranoid about having them in her pocket. They were far safer there than they had been in the wall, and yet her fingertips were grazing their edges again.

“Miss Stark?”

Sansa jumped at hearing her name. She spun and saw Jon paused halfway to her.

“Jon,” she nearly whispered. She felt the urge to throw her arms around him as if he were Robb, but she managed to keep her arms at her sides.

“What’re yo—” Jon started. Sansa waited quietly for him to continue, but he just stared at her.

“I, um. I wanted to thank you. In person,” she said haltingly. She felt her hand pull the chain from below her neckline before she realized what she was doing.

“Oh. Y-your welcome, ma’am.”

“I was also wondering if we could walk? I wanted to talk to you.”

“Walk? Walk where?”

“Oh—I…Around? There’s a park a few blocks over.”

Jon stared at her skeptically and Sansa felt her face heat.

“Where does your ma think you are right now?”

“At dinner with the Baratheons,” she admitted, staring at the ground.

Sansa heard his groan and she felt as if she’d done something wrong. She didn’t understand his reaction. All she wanted was to talk to him, ask him about how it felt to lose his mother and how he coped with it. She wanted to know if it ever got better, or if she would feel this ache in her chest forever.

“Look—” he started again, but Sansa cut him off.

“Your note said you lost your mother. I’ve… I’ve never met anyone else who has lost a parent—at least anyone who remembers what it’s like. I just wanted… I just wanted to ask if it ever stops hurting.”

“I…” Jon paused, and Sansa felt his eyes travel the length of her body. She felt as though she should be blushing, but she almost felt like giggling instead. “Alright. We’ll walk.”

Sansa smiled gratefully, closing the distance between them, and leading him to the park.

It was early dusk—the street lamps had just come on, but even with them it was dark enough that Sansa was sure no one would recognize her. She had passed for a shop girl in this coat before—she hoped she did again.

“I’m sorry about your mother,” Sansa began.

“It’s fine. It was years ago,” Jon shrugged.

“How… How’d it happen?”

“Influenza.”

“Oh.” She remembered hearing the man at the rally talk about his wife coughing up blood and still working all those hours in an awful factory. She wondered if that was what happened with Jon’s mother.

“What about your father?”

“The doctor wasn’t positive…something about his heart, I think he said? My mother said he clutched his chest before he collapsed.”

Jon was quiet and Sansa wanted to ask how it felt when his mother died, but she couldn’t find the words. Polite people did not discuss the feeling of losing a parent. She didn’t know how not to be rude.

“It does get better,” Jon said softly, almost to himself. “You asked if it ever stopped hurtin’,” he added, no doubt because of her confused face. “It never stops, but it gets better. You don’t notice. You’ll go weeks without thinking about it, but then something will remind you… And you’ll feel it again, but it won’t be as raw.”

“How long does it take?” she whispered.

“Took me almost a year. Every day I woke up and thought ‘she’s gone’ and then one day… I just didn’t.”

They walked through the loop in the park, asking and answering questions quietly without awkward stalling. Sansa thought it might have been the most honest exchange with someone she’d ever had.

They were nearing the exit of the park and Sansa knew she had to ask the question still on her mind.

“How… How did your father manage?”

As soon as the question left Sansa’s mouth, she felt the way the air shifted between them. There had been an openness, an understanding, like there had been the first time they’d met. That feeling evaporated the moment she asked about his father. She saw the way his shoulders curled in from the corner of her eye.

“Oh, I-I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…”

“Nah, don’t worry about it. Never met him. Doubt he would’ve been bothered about it.”

“Oh.”

They walked down the block towards her house and Sansa knew she had to give him the letters now, before they were within sight of the windows. Or before she lost all of her courage.

“Jon, I had another reason for wanting to see you tonight,” she said in a rush and pulled the letters from her pocket. “I wanted to make sure you got these.”

“Oh, um, right.” He stared at the letters in her hand before finally taking them and sliding them into his vest. “Oh, I just about forgot. Here’s today’s paper.”

“I can’t pay you for it.”

“Take it anyway,” he shrugged. “Ma’am.”

“Please, call me Sansa.”

“Take it anyway…Sansa.”

She had to swallow against the thrill she felt hearing him say her name. She was sure hearing that wasn’t supposed to feel so good.

“Thank you, Jon.”

They stopped at the wall where the loose brick was.

“Well… Good night, Jon.”

“Good night… Sansa.”


	5. Jon

Jon had to wait until morning to read the letters Sansa had given him. By the time he’d returned to his part of the city it was full night and he could barely see the stairs leading up to his flat, let alone words printed on a page.

The first was short. It said that tragedy had struck her family and that she wasn’t able to pay for the newspapers anymore. She said that she would do her best to get the thirty-five cents she owed him, but she needed time to figure out how. She thanked him for understanding and for continuing to deliver the newspapers for that week even when she didn’t leave nickels.

The second was longer.

_Jon,_

_Thank you for the locket. I know it must be dear to you and I will cherish it. I will also cherish the thought of you giving me something to help me through this tragic and trying time._

_It is so strange without my father here. He was a quiet man, but the house still feels quieter without him. I have nightmares about my mother’s screams after he collapsed. She was wailing something awful, but now she presents herself as fine. I know I am meant to as well. We are all meant to._

_No one wants to talk about him, or how it feels now that he’s gone._

_I can’t talk to my friends about it—not only because none of them have lost a parent, but also because it’s not considered polite conversation._

_But I feel like I can talk to you, Jon. I hope I can._

_If I can, I’d like to._

_If you would be all right with us meeting, leave a note in the wall._

_I hope you do._

_Yours,_

_Sansa_

Jon traced his fingers over the ink of _yours, Sansa_.

He could feel his heart in his throat. The sincerity of the letter was obvious, but Jon still found it hard to believe.

What would a girl like her want with a guy like him?

He couldn’t understand why she kept seeking him out. Why she kept asking to meet him again. Before, when it was just her interest in the strikes, Jon chalked it up to her being kindhearted, but this was far more than that.

This was… _friendship_.

He couldn’t be friends with Sansa Stark. He couldn’t.

He thought of her eyes, that gentle blue, and no matter how beautiful he thought they were, it was impossible to even tell her. Jon imagined being able to see them every day and thought made his heart swell.

 _No,_ he chided. He couldn’t think like that, because if he did, he would definitely fall in love with her. Hell, he was almost starting to already. Seeing her more often would only speed up the process. Jon knew exactly how that would end for him: with heartbreak.

But he remembered her questions in the park last night.

When he agreed to walk with her, he didn’t think she was honestly going to ask questions about his mother, or about how it felt when he lost her. She had said what she wanted to talk about, and that was exactly what they talked about.

Every time, Sansa met him with honesty.

Quickly, Jon tore off the bottom of her letter and scribbled out an answer to leave after work.

* * *

He started meeting Sansa after that. Never for too long, but Sansa left a note to meet her in the park more days than not.

Some days they talked about exactly what she said in her letter—their parents and how it felt to lose them—but other days they spoke of different things. He told her more about the strikes. She told him about what she heard at the dinners she attended. They spoke of the city. Jon once had the courage to ask what it was like to ride in a carriage. She asked about apartment buildings and how it felt to live stacked on top of other people.

It was innocent, but it was real. It was a friendship.

He was starting to trust her, but he didn’t tell her everything.

He knew she was interested in the strikes, but he also knew she knew the Hardyngs. He wasn’t sure how well she knew them, or what that even meant with her type of people, but the last thing he wanted was to accidentally say more than she should to anyone in that family about the strikes.

Because Jon was helping plan one.

The Hardyng printshop was going to be one of the first printshops in the city that have its workers strike.

It had been brewing for months, but the new hours and cost of ink was the match they needed.

Jon had worked in the printshop for over a decade, starting as a runner and moving to more skilled tasks as he got older. He’d been setting type for the last few years, and for the last few years, his hours had been the same. He was meant to be at the shop around sunrise and he left when the whistle blew at dusk—same as nearly everyone else in the city. Suddenly, the Hardyngs changed it. With the addition of electric lights to the shop, they could work longer hours—stay well past nightfall and start before the sun was up.

That was the first issue.

The second was the cost of ink.

Before, certain errors were to be expected. Sometimes the papers didn’t get fed through right, or the ink wasn’t spread even enough. Usually the first couple through the press didn’t turn out right for some reason or another, but that had never before been an issue. Now, apparently the cost of ink had risen, which meant that for the Hardyngs, those mistake papers could no longer exist. Or, if they did, Jon and the other typesetters were meant to pay for them.

Jon didn’t understand how that could possibly be just. The Hardyngs were rich—nearly as much as the Starks or the Baratheons. They could afford a few mistake papers far easier than he or anyone else working for them could.

He and a few others that worked in the shop were fed up and when someone mentioned a strike, Jon couldn’t help but agree. They needed a rally first. They need more people—even more printshops—to join them. And they needed a way to spread the word.

Before, Jon would’ve thought he could probably print the message on the backs of the mistake papers that were usually burned, but he knew that wasn’t an option anymore. And it wasn’t like any of them could afford to print their own papers.

Jon spent all his waking time that wasn’t at work or with Sansa trying to think of a solution.

He considered asking her. He knew she couldn’t give him the money, not if she could no longer afford to pay for the newspaper, but he knew she was smart. She could probably see something obvious he was missing.

* * *

Jon had been walking home from one of his walks with Sansa when the answer suddenly came to him. He rushed back through the streets and up the flights of stairs to his flat.

Knotted into the bottom corner of his blanket was a sock full of the nickels he’d saved from bringing Sansa newspapers. He’d never actually counted how much he’d had from her.

With shaking fingers, Jon unknotted everything and shook out the coins.

Just over two dollars. He doubted he had ever had that much money on him before. He almost felt rich.

He just had no idea if it was enough to do what they needed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry that this is all plot. I should have the next one up tomorrow, and I promise it's much more exciting.


	6. Sansa

Sansa was just coming back into the house from where she had been leaving a note for Jon in the wall when she met her mother in the foyer.

“Sansa, dear, I just received an invitation for you to join Harrold Hardyng for dinner tonight.”

“Oh, tonight?” she stuttered. She’d just left a note to have Jon meet her. “It’s awfully late notice.”

“It was meant to be sent weeks ago, it seems, but with…everything that’s happened, they were unsure if it was appropriate.”

 _Of course it’s not appropriate,_ Sansa wanted to scream.

“Oh, is that the invitation from the Hardyngs?” Petyr asked, appearing from her father’s study.

“Did you know of it?”

“I might have suggested to Mr. Hardyng when I saw him in town yesterday that Sansa seemed to have recovered from her mourning.”

“I think it’s a wonderful opportunity for you,” Catelyn said. “The Hardyngs are a great family, and Harrold is set to inherent the newspaper…”

“Might I suggest you wear your new dress? The wisteria one with the lace,” Petyr added.

Sansa felt her eyebrows raise incredulously before she could mask her feelings or contort her face into something impassive.

“This could be a very important night for you. You’ll want to look nice.”

“Petyr’s right, dear,” her mother added. “I’ll have Jeyne set it out.”

Petyr went back into her father’s office then, and Catelyn went off with her invitation, no doubt to send an agreement back and talk to Jeyne. Sansa stood frozen in the hall, wondering what had just happened.

* * *

As Sansa stepped out of the carriage in the dress Petyr had recommended she wear, she felt the collar of it tightening around her neck, suffocating her. She fought to keep herself from tearing at the lace and found the outline of the locket beneath the fabric instead.

Maybe she could get away in time to meet Jon still. It was early yet.

That’s what she told herself as she approached the door and rang the bell, setting off a series of chimes that made her hair stand on end for some reason.

* * *

To Sansa’s surprise, the dinner was with Harry and not the whole Hardyng family. The wait staff was present, so they weren’t completely alone, but the feelings of apprehension she had been having since stepping out of the carriage started to turn into feelings of disquiet.

She knew Harry—they often attended the same dinner parties and he was only a few years older than she was. The few times she had actually conversed with him, he seemed pleasant enough, and he still did, but something about this wasn’t quite right.

“So, my father tells me that Mr. Baelish has taken over the finances for your family while your brother is away.”

“Yes, he has.”

“He also tells me that your father tasked Mr. Baelish with finding you a suitable match. Someone from an appropriate family, the right age, sympathetic disposition…”

If Sansa had found the situation amusing instead of terrifying, she may have snorted. Those were not her father’s words. Those were Petyr’s. She’d heard him talking to her mother a few weeks ago, but she was sure her mother would have, at the least, told her if Petyr was selling her to the highest bidder.

“I know that your father just passed, and this is all very sudden, but Sansa, I can promise you that I will give you a very comfortable life. You’ll want for nothing. I know that we’ll be very happy together,” he said, pulling a ring from his pocket and sliding it onto her finger.

Sansa lost her voice. She couldn’t open her mouth—she was scared that if she did, she would scream.

“I’ll take that shocked silence as a yes. I’ll tell my father right away. I’m sure we can print the announcement in the morning’s paper—tell the world. I’ll be just a moment, my intended.” He grazed her hand with his fingers as he left and Sansa nearly ripped her hand away from him.

Once he was gone, Sansa stared at her nearly empty plate with tears of frustration brimming in her eyes.

She hadn’t said _yes_ , she thought angrily, looking at the ring on her finger.

She hadn’t said _no_ either though, and that was the problem. He’d gone to tell his father that she had accepted and now she had no way out.

She was trapped.

Sansa felt like she was at that riot all over again, with people pushing in on all sides and her unable to move, but this time she was sitting in an empty room.

She thought of the riot, trying to remember how she stopped the feeling of panic from consuming her. Except she didn’t. It nearly did. It was Jon who pulled her out.

_Jon._

Sansa’s fork clattered from her hand as she fled from the room. Rushing through the halls, she was soon outside and grateful to see that it wasn’t far past dusk.

The carriage driver wasn’t back yet—he wasn’t expected to pick her up for another hour, so Sansa took off down the street at as brisk of a pace as her skirts and her upbringing allowed.

At the wall, she yanked the brick out to see if Jon had come yet. Her note was still there.

On the way there, her nerves had settled enough that she could breathe normally, but she doubted it would stay that way if she had to stand there and wait for Jon. She could already feel her fingertips starting to tremble and every time she caught sight of the ring on her finger, she felt the urge to either throw up or scream.

 _So I won’t,_ she decided, slamming the brick back into place. She would find Jon.

It wasn’t until she was well into the city that Sansa realized the errors in her plan. The first was the dress she was wearing. No one in the city wore dresses in this color, with this many ruffles, or with this much lace, she saw. She obviously didn’t belong, and others noticed. She got far more stares than she had any of the other times she ventured into the city. The second was that she had no idea where Jon lived, where the Hardyng printshop was, or the route he took to the wall. She just knew that he had been passing through the square the day of the rally.

Sansa slowed her pace, wondering how she would ever find him. She didn’t know this city and with this dress, she doubted anyone would help her.

Moving closer to a building, Sansa stopped and held her arms around her waist. She needed a plan. She couldn’t just rush into the city and hope to stumble into him.

She was just thinking about setting off again when two children rushed passed her yelling about a strike rally in the square.

“Well, it’s as good a plan as any,” she muttered, and followed after them.

This rally was far more crowded than the one she had gone to all those months ago. Someone was standing on a bench, brandishing a leaflet.

“Hardyng thinks that just because he’s installed fancy lights in the shop, it means that we have to work longer? For the same pay? What do we say?”

“NO!”

 _Hardyng?_ Sansa thought, heart pounding. That was the newspaper Jon worked for.

Frantic, Sansa started pushing through the bodies, trying to get closer to the front. Jon was here. She knew it. She could feel it.

“Hardyng thinks that we should have to pay for any mistakes made by the press? We should pay for the lost paper and ink? What do we say?”

“NO!”

She finally broke through to the front of the crowd and felt herself smile in relief. Jon was there, next to the bench the man was on.

“Hardyng thinks—"

“Cops!” someone shrieked just before the first whistle sounded.

“Jon!” Sansa shouted, crossing the last of the distance between them.

“Sansa! Wha—what are you doin’? You need to get out of here!” he hollered above the din, grabbing onto her arms.

“I can’t—I can’t go home!”

“I’m serious—you can’t be here!”

“I won’t go! I can’t!”

“Goddamn it,” she heard him mutter before he wrapped his hand tightly around hers and pulled her from the shouting mob and shrilling cops.

They ran down several alleys until the sounds of the square were far behind them. When Jon finally released her hands, they were both panting and pieces of Sansa’s hair had come loose.

“What are you doin’ here?” Jon asked, still breathing hard.

“I… I had to leave,” she answered softly.

“Well, you need to go back. It’s not safe for you here. Not… not dressed like that.” Sansa tried to ignore the strained quality she heard in his voice.

“Take me to your place.” Sansa held her chin high and tried not to let her gaze waver.

“What? No.”

“Jon, please. I can’t go home. I don’t have anywhere else.”

“Your reputation…”

“I don’t care.”

Jon wrenched the cap from his head and ran his hand over his face. She heard his sigh and was terrified that he was going to say he would escort her home.

“You sure?”

“Yes,” she said definitively, sounding far braver than she felt.

“C’mon,” he mumbled, grabbing her hand again and leading her quickly down the alley.

When they came to the Hardyng printshop, Sansa stopped in her tracks. He was going to give her back to Harry.

“Jon, wh—”

Jon stalled beside her, looking up at the building first before meeting her gaze.

“Just… trust me.”

Instead of taking her up the steps of the building, Jon started going down the alley that ran along side. Sansa stared in shock as he hopped up onto a crate and pulled down the ladder of the fire escape attached to the side of the building.

Without meeting her eyes, he crouched to extend a hand to her. Careful of her skirts, Sansa climbed onto the crate and followed him up the fire escape to the top.

At the top the metal grate was covered with cardboard and old newspapers. Sansa stood off to the side as Jon slid the window to the building open and crawled inside.

Shyly, she followed.

The space must have been the attic of the shop, she realized. The only light came from the full moon. Most of room was cast in shadow. From what she could see, there was a roll of blankets on the floor, a pile of newspapers in the corner, a bucket, and little else.

She could feel Jon’s eyes on her as she took in the room. She knew he was waiting for her to change her mind and asked to be walked home, but that wasn’t why she was so quiet. It was because she couldn’t believe that he—that anyone—lived like this. Not when her family had so much room, especially when all of her siblings were at boarding school for most of the year.

“It’s not great,” Jon said quietly. “But it’s dry, and warm in the winter. It’s better than the streets.”

“The streets? Do people sleep on the streets?”

“Oh, tons. Most of the fellas I work with at the shop do.”

“I had no idea…”

“’S not so bad. The view’s pretty great.” She saw his shrug from the corner of her eye, and she turned to look at him. He had his hands deep in his pockets and his cap pulled low. She almost said, _yes, it is_ while looking at him, but the sight hurt her heart too much to say so.

Instead, she turned towards the window to look at what he actually meant.

Sansa didn’t think she had ever been up so high in the city. She could see over the tops of the buildings. She could see clothes lines strung up like banners between windows. She saw people in the streets below her. From up here, they all looked the same.

Wanting to take in more, Sansa crawled back out onto the fire escape. She heard Jon come out after her.

“You’re right… It’s beautiful. It looks like a maze from up here.” She took in the view of the city, trying to see it the way he did, but all she could see was how beautiful it was—indigo sky and the silver moon washing everything in ethereal light.

“I sleep out here when it gets too hot. Makes me feel…” he trailed off quietly.

“Free?” Sansa filled in, turning to look at him.

“You take the bed. I’m fine out here,” he said, turning his back to her.

“Are you sure?” she found herself asking quietly, laying a gentle hand on his back. Sansa was immediately shocked at the warmth she felt through the thin fabric.

“What is this to you?” he asked suddenly, shrugging her off.

“What?” Sansa clasped her hands in front of her, trying to ignore the tingling feeling she still felt in her fingertips.

“What is this to you?” he repeated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know Catelyn isn't very strong in this 'verse, but she's grieving, she technically has no control over anything, and in all honesty the plot doesn't make sense if Catelyn was as strong as she is in canon. I'm very aware of this.


	7. Jon

“Jon… I…” Sansa faltered.

Jon’s gut clenched. He knew it.

“Whatever this is, I want no part in it.”

“What? Jo—”

“You think you want someone like me, but you don’t. You don’t know what you want. What, do you think this is all a game or some—I-I don’t know! I just know nothin’ good is going to come of it!”

“It’s not a game, Jon. I promise.”

“Then what is it?” he was nearly yelling, but it did nothing to ease the storm he felt in his chest.

“I-I don’t know!”

He groaned, aggravated.

He could still feel the press of her hand against his shoulder. He could still feel the shivers it had sent through his body.

“People like you and me can’t be friends,” he spat. “And we sure as hell can’t be more.”

“Jon…”

“You should leave. You shouldn’t be here.”

“Why _can’t_ we be friends?” she suddenly fired back. Jon’s head snapped up to look at her for the first time since he said he’d sleep out here. He let out a bitter chuckle.

“ _Why_? Oh, I dunno, maybe because you’re from one of the richest families in town and I… I’m a nobody…”

“I don’t care about any of that, Jon!” she cried, approaching him in the tight space. Jon retreated until he was almost against the railing of the fire escape.

“Oh, sure you don’t! You tellin’ me you’ll be perfectly fine come mornin’ when everyone realizes where you spent the night? You fine to end up a spinster?”

“Ugh, stop being so stupid!” Sansa hollered, closing the little space between them and moving like she was going to push him, but her hands stopped short.

“Go ahead, do it! I’ve been shoved around by people bigger than you my entire life! Give me all you got!” he yelled, breathing hard.

Sansa’s hands moved and he nearly flinched. He expected a shove or a slap, but all he felt was the softest of touches on his neck. Before he could register what her hands was doing there, she pulled him in and kissed him.

His first instinct was to grab ahold of her and never let go, but instead he tightened his grip on the railing behind him.

“Jon,” she breathed when she broke away. He was dreaming. He had to be. “Jon,” she whispered again, leaning in.

“No, wait,” he muttered, stopping her. “I’m not an idiot. I know this doesn’t end happily for us. Heiresses don’t end up with guys like me. So, what? You spend the night and return to your life in the morning? Because… if that’s how it’s gonna be, I don’t want this.”

“It won’t be, Jon. There’s something… _real_ here.” She moved her hands to his chest again, and Jon thought the touch alone would be enough to break him.

“You tellin’ me you won’t be gone soon as the sun’s up?”

“I won’t be.”

“That you’d be fine livin’ in a place like this?”

“I am.”

“I can’t give you fancy clothes, Sansa. I can’t give you anythin’ you’re used to.”

To his surprise and almost disappointment, Sansa stepped back then, sliding back through the window.

“You mean clothes like these?” she asked, and Jon watched as she stepped out from the puddle of her dress. “I don’t need them,” she murmured as Jon moved to stand in front of her. “I don’t need fancy hair ribbons.” She pulled something from her hair and it all came tumbling loose. “I don’t need silk stockings.” She unhooked her stockings from the clasps at the tops of her thighs and let them drop.

Jon had snuck into a couple of burlesque shows before, but those were nothing compared to what was happening in front of him. He wasn’t even sure he was breathing anymore.

“I don’t need any of it, Jon,” she whispered, coming closer until their chests brushed at every inhale.

This time he couldn’t help himself. When their lips meant, his arms wound as tight around her as he could, one on her back and one in her hair.

This time he kissed her back.

Jon leaned back, gasping for air and trying to control the longing that was suddenly making his trousers uncomfortable.

Sansa’s hands rested on his chest again, and Jon moved his to the safety of covering them, holding them there.

“I want _you_ , Jon. I don’t care what you have to give.”

He was sure she could feel just how fast his heart was beating under her palms.

“I want all of you,” she whispered, taking ahold of his vest and leading him back to his bedroll was.

Jon groaned as she removed his cap, unbuttoned his vest, her fingers tracing the lines of his shoulders as she slid it off.

“Hey,” he murmured, catching her hands as they began on his shirt buttons. “You sure?”

“I’m sure.”

He wrapped his arms around her again then, and lowered her gently onto his bedroll.

* * *

Jon had been with women before, but all those experiences flew from his mind at the sight of Sansa’s blue eyes, her ivory face, staring up at him, trusting him, with her hair spread across his pillow.

Her fingers left trails of fire and goosebumps against his skin. Every hitch in her breath made him close his eyes and suppress a moan.

The softness of her skin nearly pulled him out of the moment, but Sansa took his hands and set them back on her waist before pulling his face back down to hers.

* * *

Jon drew the tips of his fingers along the length of Sansa’s thigh, relishing in his ability to do so. He heard the quiet hum that came from her throat at the touch. Her fingers traced lazy circles on his bare chest and he almost admitted the same noise.

“Do you still believe I’ll be gone in the morning?” she asked softly, sitting up on her elbow.

“No,” he whispered, but part of him knew this couldn’t be real. Part of him questioned how he could possibly hold on to her. He knew what they’d done didn’t make things permanent, and asking her to stay would be asking far too much.

He knew he would eventually have to let her go.


	8. Sansa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry I forgot to post this last night!

When Sansa awoke, she was wrapped in the warm, strong arms of Jon still. She rolled so that she was facing him, and could drink in his face in the grey predawn light.

It was the first time Sansa had seen him without his cap in the light. His hair was dark and curly, which she had figured last night, but in the light, she saw it was more dark brown than the inky black it had looked in the silver moonlight. His eyelashes fanned out against his cheeks, and his dark brows looked the closest to relaxed she’d ever seen them.

Sansa curled closer, the warmth of his body making her feel safe and protected, when footsteps thundering up the stairs jerked her away.

“Jon! Jon, wake up! I think someone’s coming,” she hissed, shaking him.

“What?” he gasped, bolting upright just in time for the door she hadn’t noticed last night to break open.

Sansa couldn’t help but shriek as she pulled the blanket up her mostly naked body even as Jon lunged in front of her.

“Hey, you can’t just come barging—” Jon began. Sansa had never heard him so angry, even when he was shouting at her on the fire escape last night. That was pained, she realized now. This was anger.

“Actually, I can. My father owns the building. And you’re trespassing,” a cool voice Sansa immediately recognized said. “Sansa, dear, let’s go home. We can talk about whatever it was that upset you last night.”

If Sansa didn’t still have a hand on Jon’s back, she would have never felt the way his muscles tensed at that.

“No, I won’t,” she said from behind Jon’s shoulder. She’d meant her voice to sound defiant, but it came out sounding more petulant than anything else. Trying to combat that, she peeked over Jon’s shoulder to see Harry standing there with Petyr and several police officers.

“Sansa. Don’t be ridiculous. We’ll chalk up this little…lapse in judgement to the loss of your father. No one will ever have to know about it. We’ll keep it our little secret.” Harry smiled in a way she thought was probably supposed to be welcoming and understanding but Sansa saw something darker underneath it.

“What are the police officers for, then?” she asked, a sense of dread filling her.

“In case you wouldn’t come willingly.”

“Are you going to have me arrested? For refusing to marry you?”

“Oh, Sansa, don’t be so naïve. You’re not the one here who’s committed a crime. Several, in fact.”

“What?” she whispered, tightening the hold she had on Jon, that dread making her go cold.

“Enough of this,” Petyr said, speaking for the first time. “Officers, arrest him for the kidnapping and defiling of Sansa Stark.”

“What? No!” she screamed as Jon was hauled to his feet by the police. Another officer lifted her when she tried to cling to Jon. He draped the blanket over her to reserve her modesty, but it fell quickly when Sansa continued to struggle against his hold.

“You should also add trespassing, inciting a riot, disorderly conduct, and conspiracy,” Harry added, picking up a paper from a pile in the corner. Sansa dimly noticed that it was a leaflet from last night’s rally against the newspaper.

“Let him go! He didn’t kidnap me!”

“Take him away,” Petyr ordered.

Sansa looked quickly to Jon, thinking—hoping—that he had a way out of this, but he stood there pliantly, head hung low.

“Take me away too. Arrest me. I kidnapped myself,” Sansa snarled. If Jon wouldn’t fight, she would.

“Put her in our carriage. Here, wait.” Petyr pulled her dress out of the heap of clothes on the floor. “Put this on. We wouldn’t want any you to expose yourself to any more laborers.” Begrudgingly, Sansa donned the dress and allowed the police to escort her down to the carriages.

She thought Petyr or Harry would demand that she be kept in cuffs so she didn’t try to run, but the officers hoisted her into the carriage and unceremoniously closed the door. She waited a few moments, and thinking she heard footsteps leading away from the carriage, pushed the door open, ready to run for it.

“Sorry, ma’am. You’re meant to stay in the carriage,” the officer said.

“Where’s Jon?” she asked instead of taking off. “What’s going to happen to him?”

“Nuthin’ pretty.”

“Will he be all right?”

“Sure, he will. If he can survive whatever beating your intended over there is giving him.”

“What? No! JON!” she cried, trying to wedge her way past the officer.

“I’m sorry, Miss. I’ve been told to use force if I need to,” he said, pulling his billy club out of his belt.

With a desperate sob, Sansa sat meekly back in the carriage and clutched the locket Jon had given her until the edges caused her palms to bleed.

* * *

“What did you do to him?” Sansa yelled as soon as Petyr and Harry joined her in the carriage.

“Only what he deserved,” Harry shrugged. Sansa stared at him but his face was an impenetrable mask of easy charm.

“Drop the charges,” she demanded.

“I’m sorry, it’s in the hands of the law now,” Petyr said nonchalantly.

“Oh, don’t bullshit me,” she scoffed, using a term she’d heard Jon use.

“Wow, that laborer really did a number on you, didn’t he? Such vulgar language.”

“Harry, I’m sorry for the misunderstanding last night, but I never actually agreed to marry you. Here, you can have this back,” she said calmly, trying a new tactic, and passing him the ring.

“That’s sweet, dear, but the announcement is already printed. We can’t take it back now.”

“I’ll just run away again. I’ll never marry you,” she declared, lifting her chin again.

“Your mother is distraught,” Petyr mentioned conversationally, and Sansa’s brave façade began to crumble. “She thought she lost you too. You should be happy I knew what you were wearing last night. It was the only way we were able to find you. Someone at the riot saw you and him take off for Mr. Hardyng’s newspaper’s printshop.”

“I’ll never marry you,” Sansa repeated, but her voice had lost all of its steel.

* * *

To Sansa’s surprise, they stopped in front of her family home. The whole carriage ride she was half terrified they would be taking her to an asylum to be committed.

“Come, put on a smile. Your mother will be so relieved to see you,” Petyr tutted, clutching her arm so hard she was sure it would leave bruises as he walked her into the house.

“What did you tell her?”

“Oh, don’t worry. She knows nothing of your illicit tryst with that gutter rat. We told her you were so overwhelmed from Harry’s proposal that you took off for Margaery’s to confide in her.”

Sansa’s panic slowed until the words sank in. Her mother was never worried sick over her. She thought she knew where she was all night. Petyr lied to her.

He led her through her house until they reached her bedroom.

“Your mother will be in soon. While you’re here, think about the decisions you’re making, and everyone you’re harming in the process.” He thrust her into her room and slammed the door behind her. Sansa could clearly hear the sound of the lock turning and she suddenly realized how trapped she was.

* * *

Sansa spent the better part of a week locked in her room. The first few days she spent so long pounding on her door that her fists and forearms were nearly bruised. She yelled for Petyr or Harry, but the only people who came to her door were her mother and Jeyne.

Her mother had all but been put under Petyr’s spell. She kept trying to persuade Sansa to just agree to the engagement. She thought that Sansa was resisting because of how soon after the funeral it was. She kept saying they could have a long engagement to respect her father’s memory.

Jeyne brought her food and information—or did her best to. The first few days all she knew was that Jon was being held in prison they kept other strikers in. She knew he was alive, and that was all. Sansa asked her every day for more information—a trial, his health, if Harry had actually given him a beating—but all Jeyne knew was where he was and that he was alive.

Sansa wanted to ask if he still believed in her, but she was terrified of the answer.

She didn’t know if she believed in herself.

Then, near the end of the week, Jeyne brought her something new.

“They have him on all the strike charges,” Jeyne said quietly, setting the tray on Sansa’s desk.

“What? They have him? How?”

“They found those leaflets in the attic, where he’d been staying. One of the other printers said Jon was the one who found the money to have them printed. They can’t prove anything about your kidnapping, but that’s just his word against Mr. Hardyng and Mr. Baelish’s.”

“What… what will happen to him?”

“Few years in prison, maybe more, depending on who the courts believe.”

Sansa scoffed. Petyr and Harry probably had all the judges in their pockets.

“I’ve got to do something. I can’t—” she stopped, choking the words off. _I can’t let him go to prison because of me._

“Miss Sansa… I don’t know what you can do.”

Sansa spied the ring laying on the floor from when she threw it after she was locked in.

“I do.”

* * *

“Sansa, dear, I’m so glad you’ve finally come around. I knew you would eventually,” Petyr said, standing in her doorway.

“I have one condition,” she said demurely, folding her hands in her lap so that the diamond on her left hand winked in the afternoon light.

“Of course.”

“Jon is released, free of all charges.”

“Well, that is an awfully large condition,” Petyr started the same time that Harry said:

“Absolutely not.”

“I’m sure we can compromise.” Petyr’s voice sounded too civil, too diplomatic for Sansa to let her guard down. “We drop the charges that involve you, and he’s just another striker being charged.”

“No.”

“Sansa, dear, I’m sorry but I don’t believe you have any leverage.”

“If Jon is tried on _any_ charges and not released by this evening, I will find a newspaper and tell them how I slept with Jon hours after getting engaged to you.” She jerked her chin at Harry’s suddenly pale form. “It’ll be a scandal. There will be no recovery.”

“You’d ruin your own reputation? For him?” Harry was skeptical, eyebrows near his hairline. Petyr just stared at her. She couldn’t understand his expression, but she held his gaze.

“What would your mother think?” Petyr said softly, in that same tone he’d used in the carriage after they dragged her out of Jon’s bed.

“My mother would want me to be happy,” Sansa argued. If only she could get out of Petyr’s spell. If only Robb was home. If only her father was still alive.

“She would be distraught.”

“I’m sure she’d be beside herself to learn that you lied to her about where I was that night. You had no idea where I was, but you convinced her that I was safe. I think she would be more upset about that. What if you never found me? What if Jon hadn’t gotten me out of that riot and I had been killed? Imagine how distraught she would have been.”

For the first time Sansa saw his veneer splinter. If she told her mother the truth, her perception of him would be ruined. And that was the only thing in the world Petyr cared about.

“Fine. I’ll have it dealt with first thing in the morning.”

“Tonight. I know a reporter who would be happy to run a scandalous story about the Hardyng heir in the Hardyng paper only days after the strike at the printshop.”

“Tonight. Harry will personally see that he is released,” Petyr promised.

Sansa had hoped that at the end of this whole exchange she would feel relief. She saved Jon. He wouldn’t be charged.

She didn’t think she would feel as if she had just sold her soul.


	9. Jon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for how short this chapter is.

Jon gently knocked his head against the wall of his cell trying to keep himself awake.

Every time he’s fallen asleep, he’s had the same nightmare of Sansa being dragged away from him, screaming his name, and him immobile, powerless to help. Every time he’s closed his eyes, he saw her horrified face as the cops burst through the door.

He hadn’t even tried to fight. He just let himself be taken away, thinking it would be better for her, but now when he thought about it that way it made his gut clench in shame.

He should’ve done something. Anything.

He could’ve easily taken down the two cops and the men in fancy coats. He could’ve gotten them out. They could’ve made a run for it.

He should’ve fought for her.

* * *

The squeak and clatter of the cell door opening shook Jon from the hazy state of consciousness he had kept himself in.

He blearily opened his eyes just enough to see shoes clomp into the cell. Nice shoes—shiny shoes. Shoes that didn’t belong in a place like this.

He jerked his head up and saw the younger man that had spoken to Sansa as if he owned her. The one who said his father owned the building—Harrold Hardyng, Jon realized with a dull pain.

“Your face is looking better,” he started. “I really did a number on you, didn’t I? Well, I’m sure it’ll heal fine.”

Jon felt his lip twitch in a snarl but quickly got it under control. He was sure Hardyng was just here to torment him. Jon wouldn’t let him have the pleasure.

“Unfortunately, I’m here under the request of my fiancée.” Hardyng’s face twisted into some evil cross between enjoyment and pain at the words. Jon felt like he’d been punched. “I’m to have you released on all charges.”

Jon clenched his jaw to keep his face in check.

“She’s really a spitfire, isn’t she? I can see why someone like you would enjoy her. She even said _bullshit_ to me, if you can believe it. Whatever time she spent with you really rubbed off on her. She’ll be fun to tame back into a proper society woman.”

 _Don’t you fucking touch her_ was on the tip of Jon’s tongue and he tasted blood from keeping it in.

“Did you know she was willing to go to the papers to report your little…night together in order to force me into releasing you? She knew it could cause a scandal I would never recover from. She’s got grit, I’ll give her that. She’s even forcing the legitimate charges be dropped. Inciting a riot, conspiracy, disorderly conduct, stealing paper and ink to print rabblerousing material…”

“I never stole a thing,” Jon bit out before he could stop himself. Technically he hadn’t—he’d sold those papers to Sansa, since she’d paid for them. Though he supposed he could’ve given the nickels to Hardyng, but it wasn’t like two dollars was going to make a lick of difference for someone like him.

Plus, Hardyng got that money back anyway.

“Where’d you get the money to print those leaflets, then?”

This time Jon chewed on his tongue to keep himself quiet. He couldn’t tell Hardyng that Sansa had given him the money, even if she hadn’t known how he paid for the paper and ink. He didn’t want to imagine what Hardyng would do to her.

“That’s what I thought,” he said smugly. Jon wished he’d taken his chance to punch him when he had the chance. “Not that it matters, since you’ll be released a free man.”

Hardyng turned to go then, but paused in the doorway. Jon braced himself for whatever last word this asshole had for him.

“As free as you can be, knowing that she’s sold her freedom for yours.”

He left before Jon could launch himself at him. The guards came through then, releasing his cuffs and explaining that he was free to go, but they would have their eyes on him.

“Must have someone out there lookin’ out for you,” one of the grumbled as he was shown out. Jon thought he was going to throw up at hearing the words.

 _She sold her freedom for yours_ repeated in his head as he stood on the street, unsure where to go.

He tried to tell himself that it was better this way. He knew he would never be able to hold on to her. He’d fallen asleep with her in his arms, thinking about how he was going to have to let her go. The news that she was engaged shouldn’t hurt him this much, but it did. He felt like someone had torn his heart out. Like someone had shattered every piece of hope he had ever let live.

He felt a grief, a pain, a helplessness, he hadn’t felt since he lost his mother.

 _She sold her freedom for yours,_ he heard in every footstep that led him away from her world, where he didn’t belong. Where he would never belong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise this story has a happy ending.


	10. Sansa

Sansa was set to marry Harry in a month’s time—early September. It wasn’t the summer wedding that most would have expected, but Harry wanted it done sooner rather than later. She suspected it was because there was no way Robb would be able to make it back by then. If she wrote him now, and if he was standing at a port to sail back when he received the letter, she supposed he could be back in time to save her from this, but Sansa knew exactly how likely that was.

She was far beyond caring though. Everyone kept telling her how perfect it would be—with the leaves changing, it would really complement the color of her hair. She always thanked them with a smile, wondering if they noticed how it never reached her eyes.

Sansa spent the time she wasn’t required to plan her wedding or spent at the appropriate gatherings wandering the city. It was a second condition that she wrangled out of Petyr and Harry after she’d known Jon was released. They had agreed only if she was accompanied.

The first few weeks she was in search of Jon, which she suspected they knew, but she had no way to find him. She heard from Jeyne that he no longer worked at the Hardyng printshop, and she doubted he was still staying in the attic. She had kept trying to spend her evenings in the square where strike rallies were held, but Jory usually escorted her home at the first sign of nightfall.

Now she just wandered, trying to enjoy the fading summer sun and escape the daydreams of what could have been.

She still felt Jon’s touches on her skin. It made her shrivel any time Harry tried to touch her—which was never often and always just a graze of his fingers along her hand, her arm, her neck. Every time she yanked her hand away, he would sigh, frustrated, and Sansa would leave the room in a flurry of her skirts.

She didn’t know how to get rid of Jon’s ghost that haunted her.

She didn’t know if she wanted to.

* * *

The week before her wedding, Sansa managed to slip Jory for the first time.

She had said she wanted to visit the soup kitchens and maybe donate some of her time. She could spend her afternoons more productively than just wandering the city. She told him she wanted to stay until after the laborers were off, because that was when she was sure they were busiest and would need the most help. Jory had agreed, but claimed he needed to be back before dusk for some duty Petyr needed him for.

“Of course. Jeyne can come with me. We’ll just be serving soup to the tired and the hungry. What harm could come to us?” she posed innocently, though she knew full well that no one wanted her with an escort because harm could befall her.

After much pestering, Jory relented and Sansa and Jeyne were free.

“Why the soup kitchen?” Sansa asked as they walked. It had all been Jeyne’s idea. She had said she had an idea to help her escape the wedding. “Has Jon been seen there?” She couldn’t even attempt to control the hope in her voice, even after weeks of no one Jeyne knew seeing him.

“I’m sorry, no. I still haven’t heard anything. It’s… it’s probably stupid,” Jeyne whispered as they entered the kitchen. Sansa found herself sweeping it, looking for Jon.

Instead of finding the dark hair and hesitant smile she was aching for, Sansa saw herself looking into what had to be a mirror—except her reflection was dirty, wore different clothing, and looked slightly off.

“Who is that?”

“That’s who we’ve come to see. C’mon.”

Jeyne and Sansa slid onto the bench across from the girl, who looked up warily. She could only imagine what the girl was thinking until shock and distrust registered as their eyes met.

“Who the hell are you?” the girl spat.

“I thought so,” Jeyne murmured, looking quickly between them. “You could pass for sisters. Twins, even.”

Sansa raised her brows skeptically as she suddenly realized Jeyne’s plan.

“Will it work?” she whispered, not daring to hope.

“Excuse me? What the hell’s going on?” the girl demanded.

“Sansa, this is Alayne, Alayne, Sansa,” Jeyne introduced.

“Sansa? Sansa Stark?” Alayne asked, perking up. “Ain’t you some sort of heiress? What’re you doin’ here?”

“Asking for your help.” Sansa saw the way this clearly rattled the girl. “It’s a lot, I’d be asking for.”

“Well, I’d better get something good out of it then.”

Sansa took a deep breath and then told this girl everything. About the first riot and how Jon walked her home. She explained how Jon delivered newspapers to her and how after her father died, he was the only person she felt actually understood what she was going through. She told her about the walks they went on through the park and how when Harry proposed she felt trapped and realized that Jon was the only one who could make the feeling go away. She told her about that night, about how she promised to be there in the morning and not go running back to the safety of her family and her money, about how she never intended to. How Harry and Petyr found her and arrested Jon on false charges. About how she agreed to marry Harry only to save Jon.

Sansa told her about how she loved Jon, and how she would do anything to be with him. Anything but risk him.

At the end of it all both Alayne and Jeyne were staring at her. Sansa realized she’d never told Jeyne everything that happened the night she ran away.

“Look, that’s sweet and all, but I don’t get what you want from me.”

“I want you to marry Harry instead of me.”

“What?” Alayne shrieked, nearly spewing soup over both of them.

“Jeyne’s right. We could pass as sisters. The dress has this ridiculous veil…”

“Yeah, and what happens to me when he finds out?”

“Nothing,” Sansa said unwaveringly.

“You’re committable if you believe that.”

“Harry places everything— _everything—_ on how people see him. His family is new money—it’s all from his grandfather’s newspaper. He will do anything to be accepted by the old money families—the Baratheons, mine, even. If the ceremony happens and it’s printed in the papers that he married Sansa Stark he’s going to keep up the charade because admitting the truth would ruin him.”

“You really believe that, huh?”

“He agreed to release Jon on all charges because I threatened to tell a reporter that I slept with Jon. He can’t handle that kind of scandal.”

Alayne stared at her doubtfully.

“The value you people place on the stupidest things,” she chuckled after minutes of tense silence.

“Is that a yes?”

“I must be out of my damned mind. Yes. I’ll marry the rich boy you don’t want to.”

For the first time since Sansa heard the footsteps on the stairs, she felt a sense of relief.

Now all she had to do was find Jon.

* * *

The night before her wedding, Sansa confined herself to her childhood bedroom, claiming she wanted to spend one last night as a girl and a daughter instead of a woman and a wife.

Instead, she was writing a letter to her mother apologizing for all the pain she was about to cause, but she hoped her mother would understand.

She knew she should be afraid, nervous even, about what she was going to do, but she didn’t. She trusted that she would find Jon and that they would make it out of all this.

Not long after dusk, Sansa’s door opened and Jeyne and Alayne slipped through.

“You sure you want to give all this up? For a boy?” Alayne asked, staring at everything around her. Sansa looked around, but all she saw was excess. She didn’t need any of this. She needed Jon.

“Absolutely.”

“Great, ‘cause I found him.”

“You found him? Where?” Sansa nearly grabbed the girl in an effort to get the words out of her faster.

“He’s still stayin’ up in that attic. He hasn’t moved.”

“What?” Sansa gasped.

“I know. It’s stupid. But maybe he’s waitin’ on someone to find him.”

Sansa couldn’t help the grin that spread across her face at the thought.

She continued to grin even as they both stripped down and into the other’s clothes. Sansa helped Jeyne with Alayne’s hair and let her own down the way Alayne’s had been. The only thing she kept was the locket Jon had given her.

“I wrote a letter for my mother. Will you make sure she gets it?” Sansa asked Jeyne as the girl hugged her tightly.

“Of course. Be safe,” she added, concern crossing her face for the first time.

“I will. Thank you,” she said to Alayne, hugging her as well.

“Go find him,” Alayne ordered brusquely.

Sansa took one last look around her childhood bedroom before she opened the door and began sneaking down the hall. She was planning on leaving through the service entrance where she was unlikely to be noticed. She just had one stop to make first.

The door to her father’s study stood open, which meant that Petyr was out. As quietly as she could, Sansa crossed to her father’s desk and opened the drawer he always did when he gave her a nickel for the newspaper. She just prayed that Petyr hadn’t moved or spent it.

To her utter relief, the drawer still had the envelope of spending money, as her father called it.

Sansa had sent Jeyne to the railway station yesterday, asking about the price of train tickets to the farthest place it would go. She knew she would have to get out of the city, and the father the better.

Jeyne had said that the farthest west the train would go was Santa Fe, but the tickets were expensive—forty dollars a person. Once, that might have dissuaded her, but she wasn’t the same little girl she used to be.

Counting quickly, quietly, Sansa found that the envelope had more than enough to get both her and Jon to Santa Fe. She slid it into the pocket of her coat, laid her hand softly against her father’s desk in a farewell, and slipped from the house to find Jon.


	11. Jon

Jon was having trouble sleeping, but that was nothing new. He’d been having trouble sleeping since the day he was released. Every time he started to drift off, he heard the words _she sold her freedom for yours_ and he jolted back awake.

It was in one of those stages where he just started to fall asleep, unable to keep his eyes open any longer, when he heard what he swore was his name whispered in Sansa’s voice. He would’ve thought it was another nightmare, a cruel trick of his mind, but in his nightmares, Sansa was always screaming or pleading when she cried his name. Not whispering.

Jon opened his eyes, not daring to hope.

Sansa stood like an apparition just inside the window, dripping wet.

“What’re you doing here?” he croaked, lurching himself into a standing position. His trembling fingers rose to touch her but stopped short, too afraid that his hand would pass through her and he would discover that she was just a figment of his imagination.

When she barely moved and didn’t answer, Jon was sure that he was right and this was just his inability to sleep driving him closer to the edge, until she gasped his name and crushed him into a hug.

Her arms squeezed the air from his lungs, and Jon thought he would gladly never breathe again if it meant that she would never let go. He just buried his face in her neck and inhaled the scent of rain, of his part of the city—the smoke, sweat, and grease—and the scent of Sansa. The one that had been haunting him through the city the past month.

“What… what’re you doing here?” he managed, pulling back to study her face.

He was terrified that Hardyng had done something horrible to her if she was risking everything to find him but steely resolve was all he saw.

“I told you. I want you. I never wanted him, Jon,” she murmured, eyes fierce.

“But… you’re engaged. Hardyng told me. You agreed to marry him.” _In exchange for my release._

“I couldn’t marry him. Not when I love you.” The way she said it was so simple, so earnest, that Jon was sure he misheard or misunderstood her. She said it as if it was an everyday thing. As if it was obvious and everyone already knew.

“What about your family? The wedding? Aren’t they just going to come looking for you again?” Jon asked, stepping out of the dream of her arms. He needed to root himself in reality. This could never be.

“No, I took care of it. He won’t know I’m gone until after the ceremony, and we’ll be well on our way out of here by then.”

“Hardyng’s an idiot, sure, but I’m sure even he’d notice if his bride didn’t show up to the wedding.”

“A bride will be there. It just won’t be me.”

Jon studied her for the first time, comparing the woman standing in front of him to the girl he met months ago, just before the start of summer. That girl had determination, sure, but the woman who stood before him was made of steel. She was no longer that porcelain doll he’d seen in the storefront window.

“Did you say we’ll be out of here by then?” he asked suddenly, her earlier words just sinking in.

Sansa grinned wolfishly and pulled a leather packet from her pocket.

“I still owe you for the newspapers,” she commented, opening it. Even from where Jon stood several feet away, he could see how much money was in there. She handed him a handful of coins and Jon’s head was spinning at seeing so many bills.

“What, did you rob a bank?” he joked, trying to hide how stunned he was at the amount of money she was handling easily.

“It’s my father’s spending money,” she shrugged. Jon balked. “I took it from his desk before I left.”

“How… how much you got there?” Again, she shrugged.

“Enough to get both of us to Santa Fe.”

The reality of the situation settled on Jon like a blanket. She was serious. She would not be marrying Hardyng in the morning. She was choosing him. She was willing—prepared, even—to runaway with him. All the way to Santa Fe.

“S-Santa Fe, huh?”

“It’s the farthest west the train goes. I hope that’s all right. I thought the farther the better.”

“No, no, Santa Fe’s great. I just…”

“Just what?” she asked, stepping up until she was so close than Jon could nearly feel her heartbeat.

Whatever rain she must’ve gotten caught in cleared and the moon suddenly lit the room in a silver glow. Jon swallowed.

“You sure?”

“I’m sure.” Her voice didn’t waver. It wrapped around Jon, easing and soothing the guilt that had been eating him alive since he heard _she sold her freedom for yours._ “I want you. I choose you. I love you.”

“I love you,” he rasped in response, locking his arms around her in the way he should have that morning that society ripped them apart from each other.

He cupped her face in his hands and kissed her deeply, trying to tell her everything he’d felt over the past month. How sorry he was he didn’t fight. How grateful he was that she did. How he hoped she would never regret this moment. How much he loved her.

Sansa kissed him back just as deeply. Jon almost felt the _I know, I know, I won’t, I love you_ in her lips and in her hands.

-

In the grey morning light, when Jon should have been heading off to work, he and Sansa stole down the still sleeping streets, hand in hand, thieves’ grins across their faces.

At the station, Sansa used money from the packet to purchase the train tickets and by the time the sky was ablaze with the morning sun, they were headed in the opposite direction, her head nestled on his shoulder, and his hand wrapped around hers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last chapter is the epilogue and it'll be up tomorrow.


	12. Sansa

Sansa woke up to the bright sun streaming in through the window. She squinted against it, rolling to her other side and into Jon’s arms.

“It’s late. We should get up,” he muttered, voice still thick with sleep, wrapping his arms around her.

“It’s Sunday. We’re not supposed to get up early,” she grumbled, snuggling tighter against his chest.

“How can I argue with that?” He pulled her closer, nuzzling her hair. “It’s still strange. Not having to work on Sundays.”

“But you enjoy it, right?”

“Sansa, I wouldn’t trade any of this for anything in the world.” She hummed at his response, glancing up at him in the mid-morning light.

He looked so different here than he did back in the city. In the city, he always looked drawn, pale, and tired. Even in those moments when he smiled, even those two nights they spent together, he always looked overburdened, exhausted. He had permanent purple splotches under his eyes. She remembered that perfect morning before it was shattered, she had thought that even in his sleep his brows hadn’t fully relaxed.

Here, he was different. He no longer worked the same hours as the sun. He no longer slept in a too hot attic on a bundle of blankets. He no longer had to worry about where his next meal was coming from.

Here, he glowed. His brows rarely creased. He no longer had those purple banners announcing sleepless nights.

Sansa had thought he was handsome in the city. She thought he was beautiful here.

“You still sure?” Jon asked softly, the way he did most mornings. Sansa knew he was braced, waiting for the day she would say she had made a mistake and flee back to the city.

“I’m sure,” she responded, just as firm as she was when he asked that night in the attic, before she took his shirt off. Sansa would’ve done the same now, except he never put his shirt back on after last night.

* * *

Sansa’s eye caught the end of a newspaper between the table and the chair where she was seated. She knew it was probably rude, but she recognized that type set and she had to know if her plan worked.

Quickly, she flipped to the page that held societal announcements.

It was there, squeezed in at the bottom of the page, as if Hardyng had barely wanted to print it.

_The Hardyng family is pleased to announce the marriage of their eldest son and heir, Harrold Hardyng, to Sansa Stark, eldest daughter of the recently deceased Eddard Stark. The newlyweds were gifted a small estate in the country, which they intend to move into after their honeymoon._

Sansa nearly crowed at reading the announcement. Her plan worked. Harry married Alayne. She was free.

She was officially free.

“So, Miss Snow, I see you’re interested in the governess position,” a voice announced and Sansa slid the paper back where it had been.

When she had given her name to the woman at the post office about the position, Sansa had almost given her real name—her old name. But that wasn’t who she was anymore. She just hadn’t realized how right it would feel using Jon’s name until she heard it out of the woman’s mouth.

She had never felt more like herself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this probably wasn't the ending you were expecting, and Alayne kind of came from left field, but I wrote myself into a corner and she was the only way out that I saw with still allowing them to run away and have Sansa save herself.
> 
> Thanks for all the love on this! It wrote itself, which was a treat.


End file.
